Nit picking, an expression whose etymology always felt familiar, but never close. I know and love many perfectionists. I have admired their passionate commitment to every detail and recoiled at the ease with which they judge.

Now, it is my son, me, and these tiny cemented lice-to-be vessels. Here I understand for the first time the intimacy of this dynamic. Together we pause as I pull these minuscule objects out of his hair one by one under the light of an October sun. We smile and bid farewell to each invader.